36. Theo
Theo
My palm starts to throb beneath the gauze before Garrett clears the campus parking lot.
My knees hurt where they hit the tile, but the heat under my skin is worse.
The spike at the café didn’t finish. Callie’s voice held it back long enough for me to leave, and now it moves through me in waves with nowhere to break.
Garrett notices. His eyes flick to my hands, then to the road. “Are you hurting?”
“My hand hurts.” I rub the edge of the bandage against my thumb, then stop because the friction makes sparks crawl up my arm. “My knees. The rest is just the spike.”
“We’ll get you home.”
“Callie handled it right,” I say, staring at the trees beyond the window.
Garrett’s answer is immediate and gentle. “She handled you with love.”
That should be enough agreement. It isn’t.
“She handled it right,” I repeat.
The car hums beneath us. Garrett changes lanes, then speaks in the same steady tone. “I didn’t say otherwise, Theo.”
When we reach the house, Sloane is already outside. He must have heard the car or felt the change in the air because he reaches my door before Garrett can walk around the front. The moment he sees the bandage, his face goes white beneath the flush of panic.
“What happened?” he asks. His voice is rough, but his hands are gentle when he unbuckles me and helps me turn toward him. “Sweetheart, what happened?”
“A mug broke,” I say quickly. My feet touch the driveway, and the world tilts enough that Sloane’s arms close around me. “I cut my palm, but it’s small. Callie took me to the nurse. She did everything right.”
Sloane stills on Callie’s name. His eyes lift to Garrett over my head, then drop back to me because I'm shaking in his arms. “Where is she?”
“Interview,” Garrett says. He has the campus health papers in one hand and my jacket in the other. “Theo asked her to go ahead. The nurse cleared him to return home as long as we monitor for another spike.”
Idris comes down the porch steps with black tea and rain cutting through the driveway air.
He takes my bandaged hand without pulling me out of Sloane’s hold, examining the wrap, the redness at my wrist, then both knees with a look that makes me want to apologize even though I know he would hate that. His thumb settles near my pulse.
“Pain?” he asks.
“My hand hurts. My knees hurt.” I lean harder into Sloane’s chest because the driveway is too open, and the heat inside me is starting to gather again. “Everything got loud, but I’m okay.”
“Were you scared?” Garrett asks from beside the car.
Sloane’s arm tightens around me. Idris’s thumb stills at my wrist.
“Yes,” I say, turning my face enough to see Garrett. “But not of Callie.”
Garrett’s expression stays calm. “No one suggested that.”
The air shifts. Sloane’s scent sharpens fast enough that my body answers with a shiver, and Idris looks at Garrett for one controlled second before he brings his attention back to me. His hand slides to the back of my neck, steadying the place where too many words keep landing wrong.
“We’re going inside,” Idris says. “Sunroom first. Then we call Calliope before she goes in or as soon as she can step out.”
Garrett’s phone buzzes before Sloane can answer. He looks down at the screen, and his jaw tightens in a way that makes the driveway feel suddenly quiet. “Campus safety,” he says. “They’re escalating the incident report because Theo’s heat status was disclosed during treatment.”
Sloane’s head comes up. “Escalating how?”
“Documentation. Questions about whether the visit was appropriate this close to his heat. They’re doing what institutions do when liability gets involved.” Garrett slips the papers under one arm and looks toward the house. “I’ll handle it before anyone thinks to interrupt Calliope’s interview.”
Idris’s gaze hardens. “Keep us copied on anything written.”
“Of course,” Garrett says, and his smile is small enough to be missed by anyone who doesn't live inside the same walls.
Sloane looks like he wants to follow that sentence all the way to the end of Garrett’s throat.
Then my knees buckle. It isn't dramatic.
My body simply stops agreeing to stand, and Sloane catches me before the driveway can rise up again.
Whatever Garrett is doing with campus safety stops mattering for one hot, terrible second because the spike I have been holding away from everyone opens under my skin.
“Sloane,” I say, and this time his name tears on the way out.
He lifts me. There is no hesitation, only motion, his arms under me and his mouth pressed to my hair as he carries me up the porch steps.
Idris stays beside us, one hand at my back and the other opening doors before Sloane reaches them.
Garrett’s voice follows from the driveway, lower now, already on the phone.
I hear “campus health,” then “Omega proximity,” then nothing useful as Sloane carries me into the house.
The sunroom smells like warm laundry, cooling cloths, cedar, rain, and my own cardamom gone sharp with panic.
Sloane lowers me into the nest, but he doesn't let go.
He comes down with me, his body curving behind mine, his hands moving over my chest and stomach like he is checking that I'm still in one piece.
“I’ve got you,” he says, and his voice is rough enough to shake. “Theo, sweetheart, I’ve got you. You’re home.”
“It hurts,” I say. I want to say more. I want to say it isn't my palm, not my knees, not the cut, not the burn. The words scatter when another wave rolls through me, bright and deep, pulling a sound out of my throat that makes Sloane go rigid behind me.
Idris drops to his knees in front of us. He doesn't rush his hands onto me, even though I can see the need in him, the Alpha part straining hard against the man who knows better. He takes my face first, making my eyes find his through the heat-shimmer gathering at the edges of the room.
“Color,” he says.
“Yellow.” I breathe too fast, but I answer. “Yellow and getting worse.”
“Do you want touch to stay comfort, or do you want help through the spike?” Idris asks it clearly, with Sloane’s arms locked around me and the nest already too warm beneath my thighs. “Use words while you have them.”
Sloane makes a broken sound against the back of my neck. His hands stop moving the second Idris asks, holding still through what has to be agony for him. He is all heat at my back, all want and panic and restraint, and that is what lets me reach for the answer without feeling trapped.
“I want help through it,” I say. “I want Sloane. I want you. I want it to stop hurting.”
Idris’s eyes darken, but his voice remains steady. “Green?”
“Green.”
Sloane shifts us deeper into the center of the nest, careful of my bandaged hand and the bruises on my knees, until the pillows and soft throws cradle every part of me.
His body stays behind mine, solid and warm, one arm locked around my chest while the other strokes down my side.
I turn toward him without thinking, pressing my face into the hollow of his throat where smoked cedar and brown sugar are thickest. The spike rolls through me again, bright and deep, and a broken sound leaves my mouth before I can stop it.
“I’ve got you,” Sloane says against my hair. His voice is rough, almost shaking, but his hands stay steady. “Tell me what you need.”
“You,” I manage. “Please. It hurts.”
Idris settles in front of me on his knees. He doesn't rush. He takes my face in both hands first, thumbs brushing the damp hair at my temples, and waits until my eyes find his through the heat.
“Still green?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Do you want us to help you through it with our bodies, or only with touch and scent?”
The question is clear and careful. It gives me room to choose. Sloane goes completely still behind me, every muscle locked with the effort of waiting.
“Bodies,” I say. “Please. Both of you.”
Idris nods once. “Good. Thank you for telling us.”
Sloane’s breath leaves him in a long, shaky rush.
He presses a kiss to the side of my neck, then another, then lower, while his hands slide under the soft shirt they put on me earlier.
The fabric lifts away. Cool air touches my skin for only a second before Sloane’s palms replace it, warm and sure, mapping my chest and stomach like he needs to memorize every inch.
Idris stays close, one hand still cupping my jaw, the other settling at my hip.
“Color,” Idris says again when Sloane’s mouth reaches the place just above my collarbone.
“Green.”
Sloane eases me onto my back in the nest. He stays close, one thigh between mine, and kisses me properly for the first time since the driveway.
The kiss is deep and hungry but careful of how hard I'm already breathing.
I answer as best I can, fingers curling in his shirt, the bandaged hand resting against his chest so I don't forget and use it.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark and wet.
“You’re so good,” he murmurs. “Asking for what you need. Letting us take care of you.”
Idris’s hands move to the waistband of my pants. He waits until I nod, then eases them down along with my underwear, slow enough that I can track every inch of fabric leaving my skin. The spike surges harder the moment I'm bare. My hips lift without permission. A soft, needy sound escapes me.
“Easy,” Idris says. His palm settles low on my stomach, grounding. “We’ve got you. Breathe with me.”
I try. The breath comes out shaky, but I match the rise and fall of his chest. Sloane shifts lower, kissing a path down my chest, my stomach, the soft inside of one thigh. When his mouth closes over me, warm and wet and careful, the relief is so sharp my back arches off the blankets.
“Sloane—”
He hums around me, the vibration traveling straight up my spine. One of his hands holds my hip steady. The other finds mine and laces our fingers together, careful of the bandage. Idris stays at my side, stroking my hair, watching my face, ready to stop everything the second the color changes.
“Still with us?” Idris asks.